


of cherries and dandelions

by Heyriel



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Casual Sex, Communication Failure, Explicit Consent, First Time, First Time Bottoming, Fluff, Geralt is a very gentle top, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has a Big Dick, Jaskier is a bit of a nervous wreck, Light Angst, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Sex Toys, Sexual Inexperience, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Wet & Messy, and takes good care of him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-30
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:54:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,648
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23395105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heyriel/pseuds/Heyriel
Summary: Barely 18 and fresh out of Oxenfurt, Jaskier has been with a whole lot of three women and sucked cock exactly once. Still, he had felt quite safe in the belief that, whatever his first proper male conquest was packing, it couldn't be much bigger than his favourite glass toy and thus he’d be able to handle it just fine.Except that nothing about Geralt was everaverage. Not his appearance, not his strength and not, apparently,his fucking dick.----aka Jaskier bites off more than he can chew when he propositions Geralt a couple of months into their shared travels.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 83
Kudos: 1932





	1. cherries

**Author's Note:**

> Featuring a more confident, well-adjusted Geralt than I normally write. Is this the reversal of _tell me something_? Maybe.
> 
> Anyway, here's 7k of my usual brand of smut (contains 50% actual sex, 30% fluff, 10% communication failure, 10% consent negotiation and traces of size kink. Not gluten-free!)

It’s summer in Lyria, a mild and pleasant evening, when Jaskier leans over to Geralt and croons some saucy verse about fucking in his ear. There are no other patrons to entertain in the tavern and the young bard honestly expects nothing but the usual glaring and growling from his sourly companion. Even 2 months into their shared travels, the Witcher seems to barely tolerate his presence. Pity... but hey, Jaskier is working on it.

Geralt is as fine a specimen as he has ever seen; tall, broad and  _ strong _ , with thick arms and even  _ thicker  _ thighs that make the bardling’s mouth water when he imagines sinking down between them. (And the hair! The eyes! -oh,  _ his eyes… _ )

Between the power to crush the bones in a human’s body, reflexes so fast he can cut an arrow out of the air and senses so acute they can pick up on a mouse rustling through the underbrush half a mile away, the white-haired Witcher was undoubtedly created to be a finely-tuned killing-machine. But Jaskier can find no trace of fear within himself.

In their time together, Geralt has shown himself to be noble and quietly compassionate above all else, avoiding confrontation and violence to the point where he’d rather leave an inn, meal unfinished and bed paid-for but unused, than defend himself against those who hurl abuse (and sometimes sharp objects) at him.

_ It’s just not fair _ and so Jaskier has sworn to do anything in his power to improve the situation.

It also makes the sizzling  _ attraction  _ all the worse.

Not only is Geralt stupidly hot, but he’s also  _ kind  _ and oddly charming and it messes with the poor bard quite terribly. He can’t stop sending winks and overt, suggestive glances Geralt’s way. Can’t stop spewing flirtatious remarks and innuendo. The young man has yet to learn how to be anything other than obvious about his desire but he does already know that confidence is the name of the game.

Still, Geralt is Geralt. Tough and experienced and probably entirely  _ straight _ .

So even if the mental image of all that juicy bulk pressing him down into the sheets makes Jaskier’s prick twitch and leak, he does not expect his actions to incite a response in the other man at all.

That’s his first misjudgement.

Because when faced with the 5th overt come-on in as many hours, for the 6th week in a row, Geralt huffs, rolls his eyes and-  _ stands up? _

“Come on, then,” He says gruffly, already turning towards the stairs and Jaskier’s brain grinds to a sudden, jarring halt.

_ Wait, what. _

He stands frozen, gaping unattractively until Geralt notices his hesitation and turns around with a raised eyebrow.

“Or are you all bark and no bite after all?”

_ Well. _

Barely 18 and still rather fresh out of Oxenfurt, Jaskier has been with a whole lot of  _ three  _ women and sucked cock exactly  _ once _ . -under the watchful eyes of those that still knew him as Julian there hadn’t been many opportunities to experiment.

Still, the bard had his fingers, fantasies and a lovely little toy pulled from a heap of bits and bobs at a novelty shop in Vizima.

It was maybe 6 inches long with a conveniently flared base and a lovely bulge on the upper half. Add just a bit of oil and it slides in easily, the comfortable stretch setting every nerve alight. Jaskier enjoys having it in, even when he’s not hard or trying to get off, and plays with it whenever he can. It’s just so nice to be full, to clench around it, to dream of his body giving a lover pleasure this way.

Is this the opportunity he’d been waiting for? Possibly. If it is though, it’s fast slipping through his fingers. With a grunt as if to say  _ I knew it _ , Geralt turns and continues his way up the stairs.  _ Shit. _

Gathering all his courage, Jaskier shakes himself out of his stupor and stumbles forwards.

\-------

When the door to their room falls shut behind him, the bard is already fully hard, blushing furiously at his own over-eagerness when Geralt takes one look at the tent in his breeches and raises a perfectly shaped brow.

Jaskier knows he mustn’t let the nervous energy twisting in his gut bubble over. The Witcher can smell emotion, at least basic ones like joy or fear, and he’ll notice any uncertainty the bard projects. How would he react? Surely Geralt has no use for an inexperienced bed-partner.

Really, Jaskier feels quite out of his depth. In their tiny room, the burly Witcher is doubly imposing and the bard has no frame of reference for how such things between men are carried out. Deciding it’s best not to lose momentum, he puts his lute down against the wall and steps up to where Geralt is standing next to the bed.

_ Confidence, Jaskier. _

He pushes right into the man’s space and kisses him, forcefully, hands going up to grab at the broad chest he’s been staring at lustily for  _ weeks. _ Immediately, Geralt is kissing back, huge hands settling on Jaskier’s waist.

Biting and sucking on soft, plush lips, he forces Jaskier back a step, then another, curbing any attempt to crowd the Witcher towards the mattress. The young man, however, is too distracted to worry about the shifting power balance. He has two handfuls of Geralt’s thick, bulging pecs to bind his attention and, oh, they’re tensing deliciously as a growl rumbles from the Witcher’s throat.

“I’m not one of your milk-maids, Jas,” he bites out and the bard finds himself picked up and damn near  _ thrown  _ onto the bed as though he weighs nothing at all. 

After two months of yearning and awkward boners, the youthful bardling finally gets his wish of being buried alive under 200 pounds of excitable Witcher, keening and whining as he’s absolutely  _ ravished _ . Either Geralt also has some sexual frustration to burn through or he’s always that intense -at least it leaves no room for nervousness.

Within minutes, Jaskier’s doublet and undershirt have been shoved off and the Witcher’s face is buried in the hair on his chest, breathing him in, sword-calloused fingers pulling and pinching at the bard’s nipples. Pain transforms into tingling pleasure and Jaskier barely contains a cry.

He had never thought to play with his chest this way; a most grievous oversight. When Geralt’s mouth latches onto one of the stiff little nubs, licking and sucking, eager little mewls start spilling from Jaskier’s mouth.  _ Sweet Melitele _ . If anything, he seems to be the milk-maid in this scenario.

There’s nothing soft about the body atop of him, nothing that gives to the frenzied clutch of his hands. Geralt has divested himself of his shirt as well and Jaskier runs his hands mindlessly over the skin he can reach, drinking in the unfamiliar sensations of coarse hair and scarring under his fingertips.

The urge to spread his legs like a 3 ducat whore is a bit embarrassing but undeniable. And it’s really not fair when life rewards his shamelessness with a Witcher’s hard belly pushing down onto his prick. Jaskier nearly spills then and there from the friction. He’s so fucking hard and they haven’t even done anything yet.

If Geralt notices the wet spot at the front of his trousers, he doesn’t say anything -which is a rather small mercy overall, considering the thoughtful look the older man levels at Jaskier when he draws back, sitting up between wantonly splayed thighs to examine the young body underneath him.

“Sensitive, are you?” Geralt murmurs, drawing his calloused palms down the length of Jaskier’s quivering body.

They’re warm,  _ so warm _ as they run along his vulnerable belly and sides. A gentle, soothing pressure which brings momentary respite from the urgent throbbing between Jaskier’s legs. Goosebumps prickle over his skin.

Jaskier moans breathlessly, arching his back as Geralt rubs his thumb over the soft little bump below his navel. It is answer enough.

To distract and discourage further questioning, Jaskier catches one of the Witcher’s thick wrists in one hand and makes grabby motions with the other. Even when not pitted against a Witcher’s heightened senses, Jaskier is a terrible liar. He worries if Geralt starts asking questions, the truth about his previous experience -or lack thereof- will slip out.

He’s in luck though; Geralt looks surprised but simply obliges the wordless demand.

Happily buried under a mountain of Witcher again, Jaskier seeks out his slightly chapped lips for another lovely kiss. It’s addictive. Their mouths meet languidly, and he relishes in the opportunity to card his fingers through the other man’s beautiful white hair.

Geralt, surprisingly, does not protest and does not, for the moment, make any motions towards getting on with the programme. He actually seems quite happy to stay in that position for a bit, simply enjoying the warmth and closeness of their bodies as Jaskier works to calm his racing heart.

\--------

“I want to see you suck my cock.”

Spoken softly into the unexpectedly peaceful silence, Geralt’s murmur is carefully undemanding. His hungrily roaming hands, however, give away the desire hidden underneath. Nodding to the unspoken request, Jaskier lets go of the Witcher’s soft tresses to watch him undress.

That’s when Jaskier realises his second misjudgement of the night.

He knows himself to be quite average in length and girth. With his little glass toy being similarly sized, Jaskier had thus felt quite safe in the belief that, whatever his first proper male conquest was packing, he’d be able to handle it just fine.

Except that  _ nothing  _ about Geralt was  _ ever  _ average. Not his appearance, not his strength and not, apparently,  _ his fucking dick. _

The thing is massive; at least 8 inches of engorged flesh, drooping under its own weight, throbbing with the Witcher’s slow heartbeat.  _ And the girth of it. _ Jaskier can’t help but feel a sizzle of fear, hastily shoved down, as he crawls over to where Geralt has laid down against the headboard, now fully naked.

The Witcher has a hand on his cock, pulling the foreskin back lazily and exposing the pink, glistening head. Under other circumstances, Jaskier might have focussed on how pretty it looks, how flattering it is to see Geralt dribbling precome in anticipation of the bard’s mouth… but now he can only stare, bug-eyed as he tries to comprehend how  _ that  _ particular weapon in the Witcher’s arsenal could have escaped his notice.

“Don’t stare. If you’re changing your mind-”

“No, no! Gods, no...” Jaskier swallows around the lump in his throat, forces himself to relax and smile, “just wondering how the hell that fits inside your breeches.”

“Hm.” There’s something suspicious in Geralt’s gaze and Jaskier cannot meet it, instead getting comfortable between the man’s thick, juicy thighs. He has literally  _ dreamed  _ of this moment and damn if he won’t enjoy it. Trying to get back into a safely-aroused headspace, he noses his way up the strong muscles caging him in, kneading and squeezing the flesh with his hands until the Witcher relaxes noticeably.

Jaskier indulges in his own bit of scenting, snuffling into the lovely white curls between Geralt’s legs. The dick might be terrifying but the velvety balls nestled below seem almost paradoxically vulnerable, so Jaskier spends some time worshipping them with tiny licks and kisses. Geralt hums in surprised pleasure, the sound swelling to a rumbling purr when Jaskier starts caressing his hips and belly with tender hands.

He sounds like a big, contented cat and Jaskier’s nerves calm.

“Uhm, Geralt?” he murmurs as he finally kisses his way up the other man’s shaft. The velvety skin is hot and pulsing, musky rich scent intensifying with every drop of slick sliding down its length, “Sorry to tell you this but I won’t be able to like, take you all the way. Can’t endanger the money-maker, yeah?”

Nevermind that Jaskier would throw up and choke long before his vocal-chords could take damage. Talk about mood-killers.

The hand pushing into his hair is reassuringly gentle. The bard leans into it, trusting.

“Sure, just use your hand on the rest.”

_ Yeah _ , Jaskier can do that.

\-----

_ And he really does. _

Cocksucking, it turns out, comes to Jaskier as easy as breathing. Even if the cock in question is about the size of his forearm and he can’t fit much more than the head into his mouth. Geralt is (for a given standard) unexpectedly vocal. Secure in the knowledge that his sourly Witcher wouldn’t fake enjoyment to spare the feelings of an incompetent partner, the moans and low curses sounding above Jaskier go straight to his own prick.

Little Jaskier had gotten nearly soft during The Revelation™ but must have perked up nicely if the heavy feeling between his legs is anything to go by. Big Jaskier redoubles his efforts, tonguing the frenulum and lightly massaging Geralt’s heavy balls until the thighs caging him in start twitching.

“Fuck,” Geralt snarls, tilting Jaskier’s head back so he can see where the bard is suckling at the tip of his massive cock, “Knew you’d be good at this. Look at you, messy little thing.”

Jaskier moans, helplessly, driving his own hips down into the bed.

“Gonna come soon, want me to fill your mouth?”

“Mhpf- Yes! Yes, please,” in his haste to answer, the young man nearly forgets he can’t speak around the flesh in his mouth. He blushes and the corners of Geralt’s mouth twitch up in amusement.

“It’s gonna be quite a lot though, so be warned,” he says before pushing Jaskier’s face back down and the bard resumes his task eagerly.

On Geralt’s direction, he massages his balls a little more and firms the strokes to his dick. The Witcher rewards him with a series of appreciative groans and Jaskier moans in return, muffled but loud through his cock-stuffed mouth, hips driving down harder, faster.

The swell and twitch of the cock in his mouth is the only warning he gets before Geralt starts spilling; long, thick ropes of come filling the little bardling's mouth to bursting. He swallows as best as he can, working the other man through his orgasm with a single-minded focus. It’s too much, of course, and semen mixed with spit dribbles down the shaft, over his hands, getting everything wet and sloppy _ - _

“Shit,  _ come up here. _ ” Strong hands pull Jaskier up into an open-mouthed, filthy kiss and his mind spins with it, barely aware that he’s whimpering, sticky fingers leaving smears of semen and saliva all over the body below.

Geralt is quite the vision, glistening with sweat like the delicious slab of meat he is and Jaskier really, really wants to devour him, doesn’t even think of using his hands to get himself off before he’s already rutting mindlessly into the Witcher’s belly. The rough wool of his pants chafes painfully, however, and Jaskier soon jerks back with a whimper.

“Please, please…”

“Relax, bard. We’re not done yet.”

“Huh?”

Geralt pushes him back a bit and motions downwards to where, _ oh dear _ , his prick is still hard and ready.

“Witcher stamina, little lark. I haven’t forgotten what you asked for,” he growls and rolls them over, turns the human onto his stomach and sends him reeling from more than just the sudden change of position.

Right. The verse that had tipped this all off- but that had been  _ before _ . Before Jaskier knew what kind of monster was lurking in the Witcher’s pants. Suddenly, the young human feels quite faint.

“Where’s your chamomile oil?”

_ Well shit. _

“The cha-? Oh right, yeah, with my perfumes. Green bottle with a cork stopper.”

There’s probably no point in trying to push through it. The mere idea of taking Geralt’s entire length up his ass is enough to make his muscles clench in fright and his erection threaten to wilt away. But then again, maybe this is his only chance to do this -’this’ being  _ Geralt,  _ specifically. If Jaskier backs out now he’ll not only have to explain  _ why _ , which would be  _ unbearably  _ embarrassing, but also live with the fact that he let the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity of getting it on with the White Wolf of Rivia go to waste.  _ No way. _

Geralt has been a very considered lover so far, and surely Jaskier cannot be the first of his partners to be intimidated by his size. With lots of oil and preparation, this could still work, right?

“Geralt?”

“Hm?” the mattress shifts as the Witcher crawls back onto it, jostling Jaskier to tuck an additional linen cloth under his knees.

“Can you, ah… please be careful? I’ve never- had someone that big.”

It’s close enough to the truth and Geralt hums agreeably.

“Tell me when it’s too much.”

There’s the soft  _ pop  _ of a vial being uncorked and a bit of fluid dribbles down into the bard’s crack. It feels ice-cold against the heat of his skin and he can’t help but hiss at the unpleasant sensation. It’s weird to be exposed to another person this way; he feels more uncomfortably bare than when he got naked in front of his first woman. Jaskier is glad Geralt can’t see his blush.

_ Deep breaths, Jas. Relax _ .

A finger pushes against his entrance, rubbing in slow circles to spread the slick and encourage it to loosen. It gives with practised ease.

Of course, Geralt’s digits are  _ also  _ thicker than average. A single one of them feels like what would have been two of the bard’s own and Jaskier gasps a bit at the sudden stretch. It’s not  _ bad  _ but it is somewhat strange. Perhaps, because he’s used to controlling the depth, speed and angle of penetration completely. Now he can only tilt his hips and go with Geralt’s pattern of movement; a bit harder, a bit deeper than what he would have done on his own.

Once it’s clear that Geralt will take the plea for patience seriously, unexpectedly filling fingers or no, other impressions come into focus. The bumps of Geralt’s knuckles against his inner walls, the heat of his body prickling against the backs of Jaskier’s thighs.

The young man feels, once again, almost embarrassed at the hungry reactions of his body; spreading his legs and bowing his back submissively feels so  _ natural  _ and Geralt growls when he sees it, adding more oil and then a second finger. Jaskier cries out, shuddering, voice pitching ever higher when the Witcher presses down _ just right. _

“You like that, little bard?” he asks, making Jaskier mewl at the delicious stretch, “Mm-mh, you’re so tight. Can’t wait to feel this around my cock.”

“Yes, fuck,  _ yes  _ please,” Geralt’s attention and his fingers and the note of excitement in his normally gruff voice  _ feel so good _ .

Jaskier’s dick twitches, splattering precome onto the thoughtfully placed linen. He wants to touch himself, wants to jerk and fondle the sensitive shaft until his body tightens rhythmically with the first waves of impending orgasm. It would feel so good for Geralt, wouldn’t it? To have Jaskier’s tight little hole convulse around his huge prick, milking him. And  _ oh _ , how Jaskier wants to be filled, wants to take his Witcher deep and proper. He’ll be leaking for  _ days _ -

A third finger joins the other two. He bears down greedily to allow them inside but still needs a moment until his body gives in to the pressure.

Geralt rewards him with biting kisses along his shoulder while the Witcher’s unoccupied hand plays with Jaskier’s chest again, squeezing the soft flesh and tugging on his tightly pebbled nipples. Jaskier reaches up to make the offending fingers desist from their abuse but abruptly realizes that he can scarcely wrap his fingers around the Witcher’s thick wrist, let alone pull it away.

By all rights it shouldn’t be so hot, shouldn’t make his whole body tingle with confusing waves of  _ danger  _ and  _ safety _ . He whines ineffectively, inciting something that might actually be a  _ chuckle  _ from the great brute behind him.

When Geralt scissors all three of his fingers, spreading the bardling relentlessly, he keens. It’s not his limit yet but is definitely close, the irregular shape of the fingers pushing not-quite-comfortably against his inner walls.

“Good?”

Jaskier settles on nodding.

_ Better now than never. _


	2. dandelions

Nervousness returns but Jaskier breathes through it.

Keeps breathing, even when Geralt’s fingers leave him and he feels the Witcher himself pressing in close; fat, well-oiled prick riding up into the cleft of the bard’s ass, catching on his softened hole. The pressure increases with each languid little thrust, Geralt seeming to time his movements with the breath flowing through Jaskier’s lungs.

“That’s it. Relax little lark...”

_ The first inch is the hardest part  _ Jaskier tries to reassure himself, fighting a furious battle against his body and the niggling thread of fear at the back of his head. Geralt has placed a hand on his side and Jaskier manages to relax a bit when he focuses on the gentle warmth of it.

_ I want this. _

Closing his eyes tightly, Jaskier takes another deep breath and bears down, leaning slightly into the next press of Geralt’s cock.

“Holy  _ fuck _ -”

His body gives, allowing the head past the first ring of muscle. The stretch and strain of it is  _ intense _ and Jaskier pants, gulping down shallow gasps of air as he desperately resists the urge to clench up, knowing that would only make it worse.

"Easy…” If Jaskier had been more present, he likely would have felt all warm and fuzzy at the concern in Geralt’s voice. Like this, he feels  _ only  _ fuzzy. “Jaskier.”

“Hm?”

“If it's too much we should stop.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

“You don’t sound like it.”

The voice telling Jaskier to cut out the bullshit and finally admit he’s in way over his head is growing ever louder. As so very often, the bard’s loud mouth does not get the memo.

“Eh, just give me a moment, yeah?” He even manages a jaunty little thumbs-up into Geralt’s general direction.  _ Great job _ .

Jaskier’s Ma might have inflicted some childhood trauma on him but she didn’t raise no quitter - and besides, the discomfort is already lessening. It’s still not  _ nice  _ but, then again, his little glass toy hadn’t been either that first time. Pushing through had served him well once, why not again?

They spend a while (minutes? hours?) in silence. Geralt drags his hands up and down the bardling’s spine, soothing some of the tension out of it. He does not move until Jaskier does, rocking experimentally to see if he’s ready for more.

It’s okay for a little bit, teetering on the edge between pain and pleasure (maybe moving into the general direction of ‘good’) until Jaskier nods and motions to continue. Geralt’s hands firm on his hips, tilting them to a better angle and, when Jaskier breathes out, he pushes in, spearing the tender inner ring wide.

_ Nope. _

No, no, absolutely not- “ _ Ow! _ ”

Before the searing burn in his ass can properly register, Jaskier’s body has already called it quits. With a pained yelp, he jerks forwards, pulling off Geralt’s cock and instinctively clenching tight against any further intrusion

“Jaskier?  _ Fuck _ .”

“Shit damn, that's not nice, ouch," Still cursing, the bard reaches behind himself, hands flying to press on the ache but Geralt stops him with a firm grip to his wrist.

“Shh, wait.  _ Breathe _ .”

Most valiantly, Jaskier resists the urge to freak out any further.

“Oww…” he whines again, covering his face and biting his lip until the pinprick of pain there overpowers the other discomfort.

Geralt lets go of his wrist.

“Okay,” he grunts, “Let me see?”

Jaskier’s nod of permission is tiny and uncomfortable but it’s seen nonetheless. When Geralt’s fingers touch between his cheeks, the bard fights hard not to tense up again. The pain is fading rapidly, yes, but the memory of the sudden, sharp burn is enough to make him wary, afraid of having it flare up again. Geralt is very gentle though, spreading Jaskier’s cheeks to get a better look and gathering some of the smeared oil before opening the sore little hole on the tips of his fingers.

“Is there any blood?” Jaskier whispers anxiously into the tense quiet.

“No. But you should put some salve on it anyway,” The mattress shifts as Geralt gets off of it, his voice sounds from somewhere by their packs, “Now, if you’d please explain  _ why the fuck _ you told me to keep going -and don’t fucking tell me it was ‘fine’.”

Jaskier sighs into his folded arms.

“Foolish bravery?” he tries with a self-deprecating smile but only gets an angry glower thrown his way.

_ Alright. You fucked up, Julian. _

“I’ve never actually done this before, okay?” he sighs, “Not with a man anyway. -and to be fair! I didn’t think you’d ever actually take me up on my stupid flirtations! But when you did, well…” he gulps, hiding his face in one of the flat little pillows, “After talking such big game it would have been  _ fucking _ awkward to admit to my inexperience, right? You must have been with so many people already, I didn’t want to… I  _ thought  _ if I just pushed through the initial discomfort it would be fine, honest.”

When Jaskier looks back towards Geralt, the Witcher has apparently found what he was searching for. He’s still glowering though, maybe more so than before and guilt gnaws at Jaskier so he steels himself to continue, trying to make the other man see the sincerity of his words.

“When you asked if I was alright, I lied. That was unfair and really, really fucking shitty of me. I’m sorry. Please, forgive me.”

You’d have heard a needle drop in the ensuing silence. Jaskier can’t read the emotions flashing over Geralt’s face and his belly sizes anxiously. Then, abruptly, the Witcher’s shoulders relax.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” Geralt says, deadpan and clearly exasperated but also, maybe, just the  _ tiniest  _ bit fond.

_ Oh, that’s new. _

“I suppose I am," Jaskier tries again for a smile and gets a slight (indulgent?!) shake of the head this time. Relief trembles through him.

Geralt sighs, “I keep forgetting just how young you are,” he says and climbs back onto the bed. When he tries to put the little blue vial into the bard’s hands, Jaskier refuses.

“I’d like it if you- well, if you wouldn't mind…”

For a moment, Geralt peers down at him, searchingly. Whatever expression he finds on Jaskier’s face seems to pass judgement well enough and he moves down the bed with a brief nod.

Jaskier is, not for the first time in their short acquaintance, honestly thankful for how utterly unfazed Geralt is by most of the things he encounters. He meets everything from a raging wyvern to a young, stupid bard with a hurting butt in his bed with a stoic kind of calm that is both a bit unnerving and very reassuring.

If Geralt is not panicking or otherwise visibly upset, the situation is not beyond salvaging. And Jaskier has already learned to trust that above all else.

He spreads his legs a little bit to give Geralt space to work. The salve is as cold as the oil was at first but as the Witcher spreads it around the irritated area, first outside then dipping in, it warms with a pleasant tingle that has Jaskier muffle a slight gasp into the skin of his arm.

Geralt stops his movements immediately. “You okay? Did that hurt?” he asks, worry clear in his voice now that Jaskier is present enough to notice it.

He hums in the negative, “No, it’s just, uhm, very warm.”

“Hm.”

With only the slightest bit of pressure, Geralt’s finger slides deeper, gliding easily in the combined slick of oil and tingling ointment. The last lingering ache disappears and Jaskier cannot stifle a soft moan at the careful touch, cheeks burning up. The Witcher behind him snorts with laughter.

“Still insatiable I see.”

“Shut up,” Jaskier whines weakly, “Can’t help it… it’s very sensitive.”

The finger disappears only to return with a bit more salve.  _ Someone is being thorough. _ He moans again.

“You sure you’re discovering this tonight?”

“I, uh, have had… things inside me before, if that’s what you mean.”

“Things?”

“Well,” Jaskier licks his lips and chances a glance towards his pack, “There’s a little toy… a sculpture of a sort that I pleasure myself with quite often.”

“Mmh,” suddenly Geralt is very close, leaning over the bard’s pliant body to murmur in his ear, “And now you wanted to see what a real man’s cock feels like?”

The Witcher sniffs at Jaskier’s vulnerable neck and he is quite abruptly reminded of a Witcher’s astute senses. Geralt does not need to see the human’s prick to know he is quickly on the way to full arousal again.

Heat pools in Jaskier’s belly as he nods to answer Geralt’s question, mouth dry.

The Witcher’s teeth snag at Jaskier’s ear, “You like it that much, hm? You like feeling full?”

“Ye-” he mewls as Geralt presses down, right into the little bundle of nerves that sends sparks up his spine, “Yes! Fuck, yeah, wanted to make you feel good,”

With a sound caught somewhere between a growl and a purr, Geralt pulls back.

“Then get your little toy,” he says but grabs Jaskier’s arm before the young man can move, “But only if you’re certain that you’re up for it right now. If you have me hurt you again  _ this is over _ .”

Jaskier feels a new pang of shame as he nods, suitably chastised under the utter seriousness of Geralt’s gaze.

The sculpture is not hard to locate, stuffed between spare clothes and tightly wrapped in linen cloth for its protection as it always is. Jaskier’s hands fumble in their haste, fighting with the leather fastening all the way back to the bed where Geralt, sat with his back against the headboard, takes it from him.

“Come,” he grunts, motioning towards his lap and Jaskier straddles his thighs with quickly mounting excitement.

The Witcher is thickening up again and the bard can’t help but shuffle forwards further until their lengths touch, groaning quietly at the contact and at the  _ view _ . Even half-hard, the size difference between them is so obvious; the bard’s cock, though average, dwarfed by the monster swelling against Geralt’s lower belly.

Without the immediate, well,  _ threat  _ of having to take it inside, Jaskier actually kind of mourns his inability to do so. Maybe with a bit more practice- he’s distracted by one of the Witcher’s arms curling around his waist, encouraging him to lay fully against the man’s broad, scarred chest.

It's wonderful.

The physical contact makes Jaskier feel safe and connected, so different from the anxious tension of being on his knees before. And besides, now that he’s no longer trying to hide something and Geralt has, in that taciturn way of his, made it clear that Jaskier’s inexperience is not a deal-breaker, an enormous weight has fallen away. Without worry clouding his head, it’s easy to relax fully.

With a happy sigh, Jaskier loops his arms around the other man, content to settle in and let himself be taken care of.

“Tell me if there is any discomfort.” Geralt’s chest rumbles as he speaks.

“I promise.”

There’s a slick sound as Geralt coats the toy liberally with oil and the bard’s hips jump in reflexive anticipation, drawing hisses out of them both. 

Thick fingers spread his cheeks again and this time the bard arches into it from the get-go, shivering at the first touch of the familiar, well-loved toy against his entrance.

Geralt takes his time again, moving in calm, rhythmic patterns over the excitedly clenching hole, down to the perineum and just behind Jaskier’s balls, making the young man sigh and wriggle, legs spreading in an unspoken plea for more.

He’s fully hard again, rubbing against the Witcher's belly and cock. When the tip of the toy finally sinks inside, there’s no burn, only the slight stretch of being opened so intimately and the smooth, well-lubed glass surface gliding comfortably over his sensitive inner walls. Jaskier moans happily and rocks back, cock drooling precome to wet the slide of their dicks together. Geralt chuckles.

“There you go… that’s better, hm?”

He squeezes Jaskier’s ass with his free hand and the little bard groans in agreement. Just like with his fingers, Geralt’s rhythm with the toy is different from what Jaskier would default to, unpredictable by the very nature of being controlled by another person. Jaskier presses into it eagerly, little sighs and keens of pleasure spilling from his lips with each push and pull.

Geralt plays lightly until he seems satisfied that the bard is suitably worked up, then he presses harder, turning the toy this way and that to find the easiest angle for penetration. A soft cry rips from Jaskier’s throat when the last of the resistance disappears and the sculpture pops all the way inside. It’s familiar yet not and Jaskier thrives on the heat and closeness of another body with him, listens to Geralt's quickening breath.

“That’s it, spread your legs for me, little bard -is that what you wanted? Is your hole nice and full now?”

Even if it’s not Geralt’s cock inside, the Witcher’s encouraging murmurs make it so easy to  _ pretend _ .

Clutching Geralt’s torso tightly and spreading his thighs as far as possible, Jaskier writhes deliriously against the solid bulk of his Witcher, shuddering when Geralt starts to thrust properly.

“Fuck-  _ fuck _ , yes right there!” Stars burst behind closed eyelids as the toy rubs firmly over the young man’s prostate.

It’s harder, deeper than Jaskier ever managed at the awkward angle he was forced into and he just holds on for the ride, mindlessly seeking out Geralt’s mouth to trade breathless, filthy kisses while every thrust moves him back and forth over the Witcher’s fat, pulsing erection. It’s really quite delightful, especially when Geralt pauses briefly to add yet more oil, mindful to ensure a smooth, nearly frictionless glide.

Jaskier likes it sloppy, even if the wet, squelching sounds of his asshole being speared open repeatedly make his ears burn with red-hot embarrassment. An idea niggles at him as he reaches down to take both of them in his hands, noting the pool of precome gathered under the head of Geralt’s dick.

“I want you to come in me,“ he manages to gasp out between moans and kisses, rendered nearly speechless by the thorough stimulation the Witcher wreaks on his hole, “Please, Geralt, I want to know what it’s like.”

The movement of the toy stops.

“We won’t try to fuck again. Not tonight.” the Witcher says, in a tone that means he will not be swayed. But Jaskier doesn’t want to do that anyway.

“That’s not what I meant. Not- not all of you. Just the head, yeah? Wanna be dripping with your come...” and more that he cannot express. Just the idea of Geralt’s face slack with pleasure, hands tight on Jaskier’s hips as the bard’s little hole flutters on the tip of his dick, teasing Geralt with its wet warmth... it’s enough to make the young man shudder, clenching on the toy inside to feel its girth again.

A similar image must be going through the Witcher’s head because he nods after only a moment’s further consideration.

“Alright,” he mumbles with another sloppy kiss to Jaskier’s mouth, “You close?”

“Uh-hm,”

“Let me see your face when you come.”

Drawing the hand not holding the toy up to Jaskier’s chest and scratching through the soft hair there, Geralt coaxes him into sitting up a little, kneeling shakily over the Witcher’s lap. He loses his grip on Geralt’s cock that way but the white-haired man doesn’t seem bothered about it.

Most cruelly, the next thrust of the sculpture is timed perfectly with a pinch to Jaskier’s left nipple, jolting the young man back into action.

His aching dick needs no further lubrication, drenched in precome as it already is, and Jaskier strokes himself with fervour, matching the quick, relentless rhythm Geralt is now setting on his ass. He curses, cries, voice climbing and breaking with each ruthless drag over his prostate, with every time the bulbous shaft pops through his entrance.

“Come on little lark, come for me,” Geralt hisses, gold irises mere rings around pools of endless black and Jaskier does so with a scream, shuddering and whining, unoccupied hand scrambling for purchase on the Witcher’s forearm.

Another difference between self-pleasure and sex is that while Jaskier, at the time of his orgasm, is too uncoordinated to keep up any sort of movement but the instinctive stripping of his cock, Geralt is bound by no such limitations. He keeps fucking his bardling until he really does sound close to tears, spent dick twitching uselessly between trembling fingers.

“Fuck, you still want this?” Geralt growls when he finally shows mercy, pulling the shaking bard into a tight embrace and removing the toy from his ass.

Jaskier honest-to-the-gods needs a moment to process the question but then he wriggles excitedly with the last of his strength, arching his back a little so his hole is easy to access.

“Yeah- shit, yes, please-”

Rubbing between his cheeks, Geralt’s cock feels as big as the first time, but the bard’s opening is used now, fucked loose and sloppy and when the head presses inside it’s not hard to bear at all. Geralt groans openly at the feel of it and if Jaskier’s dick wasn’t so thoroughly spent it’d surely start drooling again.

Like this he can only focus on the hungry clench of his ass, fluttering on the tip of the Witcher’s magnificent dick, wishing desperately he could take it deeper, get himself absolutely  _ stuffed  _ with cock. He moans, thoroughly dazed, as Geralt jacks himself rapidly.

“Feel so good little lark,” he hisses, lips touching Jaskier’s ear, “So open and wet around my cock, so brave, fuck-”

The Witcher comes with a snarl, growling ferally, sharp canine teeth threatening to pierce soft skin where he mouths mindlessly at Jaskier’s neck. Hot and wet he spurts into the bard’s softened hole, minute, instinctive thrusts forcing more and more inside. Jaskier’s prick does give a valiant twitch at that, at the feeling of Geralt’s semen dripping down his thighs, making everything even more slick and slippery than it already was, sending another wave of shivers all through his body.

\------------

It takes a while for them both to recover.

Finding the linen cloth somewhere between the disturbed blankets, Geralt carefully wipes Jaskier clean of the worst of the mess, rolling them to a dry spot with the young bard still settled on his chest. Surprisingly, he makes no move to leave or even just disentangle their sweaty bodies and Jaskier takes that as permission to snuggle even closer, playing lazily with the Witcher’s tangled hair.

For the second time that night, Geralt lets him do as he pleases. In fact, he seems to take some encouragement from the casual affection himself; after a moment of hesitation, he starts caressing the bard’s shoulders and back, strong hands moving to message the strained muscles of his thighs when Geralt notices how Jaskier was subtly trying to shake them out.

“You know,” Jaskier starts cautiously, peering up into the half-darkness, “My tutors at Oxenfurt always said ‘Practice makes perfect.’”

“Hmm… did they now.” The tone is noncommittal at best, but Jaskier catches a twinkle of amusement in the Witcher’s eyes.

Encouraged, he continues, “Definitely! There’s a theory that says you need about 10,000 hours of practice to become good at anything."

A chuckle shakes Jaskier’s resting place and he blinks in at the tiniest hint of a smile softening Geralt’s features.

“Well then,” the Witcher says, cradling Jaskier’s face in a wide palm, “No time to lose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, uhm... plot twist? owo

**Author's Note:**

> And remember; virginity is a social construct.


End file.
